The sky is slate a solemn grey,
That leans into the darkest blue,
Too delicate to imprint upon the fray,
Of fiercly crossing shadows in the view.

Humbled by the written code,
I scratch my head in curious frustration,

Why won't you work?
Just run at last!
I cannot even bear to smirk,
I feel like I've been cast a clown,
The play is up my bubble burst,
I'm tapping out the searches fast,
But I'm drawing dry wells dryer still,
Maybe I should bore another?

I scratch my head in curious thought,
And let a missing letter catch my eye,
Yet its a frequent tune I hear,
For eight problems out of nine...
Stem from mistakes very much mine.